


Free

by SigmaCreations



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Late at Night, Making Love, Premarital Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-31 02:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12666747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: Set right after the end of 5x08, Jean has trouble sleeping and determines to pay a nighttime visit to Lucien's bedroom. One-shot at the moment, possible two-shot if I can get the rest written before Sunday. My first foray into this fandom. Would love to hear your thoughts. Cheers, S.C.





	1. Chapter 1

She can't sleep, her thoughts jumbled, the events of the last few days flitting through her mind like birds in a flock, gliding, diving, blurring together. This happens to her sometimes, her mind too busy to settle down, too agitated for sleep, though you'd think, after working hard in the kitchen, the warm festivities of the day, and the wine she had at dinner, she'd be shattered and relaxed, ready for repose.

Perhaps some water will help, she thinks, sitting up and reaching for the glass beside her bed, only to find it missing.

_Damn!_

She swings her legs out of bed, feet searching for her slippers as she grumbles, annoyed with herself for forgetting to bring one up to bed with her, then remembering that it's actually all Lucien's fault – _isn't it always?_ The way he'd slipped behind her while she was filling her glass at the sink, gently resting his hand on her hip, dipping his head to press a soft kiss against her bare skin where her neck meets her shoulder... Is it any wonder she'd forgotten everything else?

“Thanks for dinner, Jean,” he'd murmured, breath coasting over her skin, making her stomach flutter and her hand tremble, but she'd rallied, turning off the tap, setting aside her glass and turning in his arms, reaching up to kiss his lips. It wouldn't do for her to turn into putty in his arms every time he's near – she wouldn't get anything done, for one, and he'd be far too smug to be bearable.

“My pleasure,” she'd replied, pulling back smiling. “It was a good Christmas. I think everyone enjoyed it, don't you?”

“Yes,” he'd agreed, still standing close, his right hand still on her waist, his gaze warm and just a little bit hungry.

She wouldn't like to admit this to anyone, but when he looks at her like that, it does things to her, awakens her, like a call from the wild, reminding her of a time when she was young and free to love and be passionate, like Charlie and Rose are now. But though indiscretions of youth may be easily overlooked, forgiven and forgotten, it is not so easy for someone such as her, for whom respectability and acceptance in the community are a matter of survival.

Her glass is exactly where she'd left it by the sink, so she lifts it and takes a couple of greedy gulps of water. The house is utterly silent and still. Everyone else is sleeping and she takes a moment to contemplate that – Matthew tucked up in bed down the hall, Charlie in his room upstairs, perhaps with Rose to keep him company, and Lucien just a stone's throw away, a few yards from her, warm and snug in his bed. Is he asleep? Is he lying awake thinking of her?

“Stop it,” she mutters to herself, turning to go back upstairs, carrying the glass of water carefully in her hand lest she spill it as she climbs the stairs in the darkness.

Once in her room, she sets it by her bed and slips out of her dressing gown, hanging it on its hook behind the door before moving over to her bed again. She pauses, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and drawing closer, smoothing down her nightdress and turning to see her reflection from a different angle. Will he like what he sees, she finds herself wondering, self-consciously smoothing down the fabric again with trembling hands.

It's not her best nightdress – that's still in the drawer since the last time she contemplated doing something like this. She could pad downstairs and slip into his room, slip into bed with him, with no one being any the wiser. She could find out, once and for all, if he likes what he sees, if he pleases her, if she pleases him, see how compatible they really are. And then they'd know, would avoid any disappointments on their wedding night, could reflect on their love making and make it better.

She remembers her first time with Christopher. They hadn't been married either. And if she's honest, it had been rather disappointing – quick and unsatisfying. But they'd got better and she'd enjoyed most of their couplings in the years that followed, even if their life had been hard, she'd felt trapped and restless, and Christopher had become increasingly more distant. And she's missed it – the closeness, the connection of making love, the satisfaction and relaxation that follows. She'll not have trouble sleeping afterwards – she's sure about _that_.

It's Christmas, she tells herself, trying to stare down her reflection and shut up the voice of reason, of caution, of propriety, of fear in her head. She's finally made her choice – unequivocally binding herself to Lucien in her heart and mind. She's said goodbye to her old life – to Christopher and her church – and she's ready to start afresh. Lucien is a complicated man, who acts before he thinks and who thinks he's always right, but he's a good man too and she loves him.

So much.

They'll be married in a few months, just as soon as they can get everything sorted. And she almost lost him again just this week. Danger courts him like a determined, demented lover and she hates to think she might lose him before she's had a chance to really taste their love, to love him in every way, completely.

“Why not?” she asks her reflection, feeling her heart beat faster as she realises that she wants this, feels the adrenaline coursing through her as she makes her decision, pulling open the drawer of her dressing table before she can change her mind. They'll be no Rose on the landing this time, she tells herself. This is their time – she can feel it.

She shimmies out of one nightdress and into the other, hesitating for a moment before pulling off her knickers too and running a brush through her hair. She reaches for her lipstick, carefully applying it though she knows it's dark and Lucien's sleeping. He'll almost certainly not notice the presence or absence of lipstick if she slips into his bed at night, but it gives her courage to know that she's looking her best. One last, nervous look in the mirror and she turns for the door, slipping into her dressing gown and exiting her room once more.

By the time she reaches the foot of the stairs, her heart is pounding so hard it's the only thing she can hear, and she has to really concentrate to listen to the silence all around her. It's past one in the morning and everyone's asleep. There's a risk, of course, that an emergency will pull Lucien out of bed and she'll be discovered with him, but it doesn't happen often enough for it to be likely, and even if it were to happen tonight, of all nights, she can slip back into her dressing gown and out of his room to the kitchen before Matthew or Charlie rouse themselves and get out of bed, can't she?

Yes, she tells herself, taking a deep breath and quickly moving down the hall to Lucien's door. She hesitates for a moment more, hand on the handle, before she resolutely squares her shoulders and slips into his room, closing the door quietly behind her.

It's dark, but not pitch black, the moonlight streaming freely into the room through the sheer drapes covering the windows, ruffled by a light summer breeze – Lucien clearly forgot to close the thick curtains, or maybe he guessed she was coming tonight and left them open for her. The thought makes her smile and boosts her confidence as she takes a deep breath and crosses over to the bed, grasping the foot-board with her hands as she gazes down at him.

He's lying on his back in the middle of the bed, face turned to the left, left arm thrown out, his right foot sticking out from under the sheet that covers his lower half. She smiles, feeling herself relax a little to see him sprawled across the bed like this, like her Jack used to do when he was little. He seems more approachable somehow, warmer, younger, vulnerable, more lovable and human.

He comes from a different class, her Lucien. The only child of parents who were well educated, well off, people of the upper echelon of Ballarat society, his childhood protected, his adolescence spent at boarding school, his early adulthood at university on another continent, studying to become a surgeon. Sometimes he seems so far out of her league to her, so far beyond her reach, but in this moment he doesn't and she's glad of it, glad she found the courage to slip in here tonight.

He's not snoring, she notes, indulging in another smile before she slowly removes her dressing gown and drapes it over the foot-board, walking round to the side of the bed and gingerly lifting the covers, carefully sliding in beside him and moving closer, her feet brushing up against his leg and causing him to stir, rolling onto his left side with a sigh of contentment. She smiles again, lying still for a moment as her mind fully absorbs this – the sensation of lying beside a man again, the heat from his body seeping into her, warming her through, though they are not yet touching.

_Good God, but she's missed this._

She smiles, turning on her left side to face him and moving gingerly closer, spooning herself against his back, her knees nestling behind his as she carefully wraps her right arm around him, her palm coming to rest somewhere between his chest and stomach. He's so wide, his shoulders so broad, his arms so strong and muscly. She turns her head, resting it between his shoulder-blades, marvelling that he hasn't yet woken and feeling relieved that it's a cool night tonight, not too hot for a cuddle. Perhaps she'll just spend the night wrapped around him like this – warm and deeply contented.

But as she sighs softly and closes her eyes, listening to his heart beating steadily in his chest for the first time, she comes to realise that its pace is slowly increasing and that he's not nearly as listless as he's trying to let on.

“Lucien?” she whispers into the darkness.

“Jean?” comes the soft reply, his voice low, filled with disbelief and wonder.

“I... yes. It's me.” For a moment, she panics, scared she's made the wrong decision in coming here tonight, but then he's turning in her arms to face her, his eyes shining in the half-light, teeth gleaming as he smiles, arms wrapping around her and drawing her into the strong shelter of his embrace, the scent of him – all male essence – filling her nostrils.

“Jean,” he breathes, his voice full of joy and longing, delight and such reverence. “Oh Jean,” he repeats before his lips find hers and she becomes lost in him, in the warmth of his body, the power of it, and the glory of his passion for her.

His hands are everywhere, strong and sure, touching, caressing, drawing her closer as his lips and tongue devour her, delving into her mouth eagerly with a fervour and a fury that makes her head spin and leaves her utterly breathless.

“Lucien,” she gasps when he finally releases her lips to nuzzle her neck as he shifts his weight towards her, pushing his left leg between her own and rocking her against him, his left hand on her bum drawing her closer, the sensation almost too wondrous to breathe. She doesn't ever remember it being like this – so heated, so intense, so desperate, so glorious.

She wants to protest, ask him to slow down so she can catch her breath and get her bearings, but another part of her – that rebellious, reckless, unfettered part that she's kept locked away since her youth – is revelling in this and she never wants it to end. “Yes,” she breathes, hands tangled in his hair and pulling him closer, his growl of arousal doing nothing to douse the flames of her desire.

She feels his hand slide down to her hip, then her thigh, gathering the material of her nightdress up, baring her calves, her thighs and then her buttocks, his hesitation and gasp of surprise when he realises she's naked under the nightie giving her a momentary satisfaction before he slowly lifts his head to look at her and she experiences a flash of panic in its wake. _Surely he's not going to back out now!_

“Jean,” he murmurs, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek, his eyes brighter than before, full of emotion.

“Don't tell me to go,” she whispers quickly. “I want this, Lucien... if you do too.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice almost cracking with hope and longing.

“I'm sure.”

He nods and she thinks he looks relieved though it's hard to tell in the dim light. “I'll be careful, Jean, and gentle. I promise.”

“I know you will,” she agrees, reaching her hand up to cup his cheek. He looks so different like this, his hair silver in the moonlight and tousled, his curls unruly and free. “It's been a very long time,” she confesses, “but I'm ready, Lucien.”

“It's been a long time for me too, but I'll not disappoint you, Jean.” He leans down to kiss her softly, with more restraint than before, but she's already burning up inside for him, craving the return of his passion and lust from a moment ago.

She kisses him firmly and sits up, quickly divesting herself of her nightdress and tossing it over the foot-board, next to her dressing gown, before returning to the bed beside him and reaching for the buttons of his pyjama top, enjoying the way his eyes gleam with passion in the moonlight.

“You're so beautiful, Jean,” he murmurs, his hands reverently tracing her skin, palm running along her side, knuckles grazing her stomach and making her tremble.

“Help me get this off,” she replies, pealing apart his pyjama top, eagerly gazing at his broad chest, her fingers threading through the dusting of wiry curls she finds there before he turns and sits up, pulling the top off and turning to her once more. “This too,” she says before he can settle, tugging on the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms that's covering his hip and watching with fascination as he complies, pulling them down over his hips, lifting his knees and removing them altogether, tossing them carelessly to the floor where they join his pyjama top.

He turns on his side again to face her, watching her face as she wordlessly gazes at him – her soon to be lover and husband too, before too long. He's truly something to behold, her Lucien, a beautiful specimen of a man for his fifty odd years of age – still strong and lean and virile. She reaches for him with her hand, running her palm along his length, watching him shudder as he groans in pleasure, closing her hand around him, marvelling at how thick and hot he is, and how beautiful.

“Jean,” he gasps, reaching for her, left leg slipping between hers as he cups her face in his left hand and meeting her lips with his own, leaning over her, his body pressing her into the mattress as his right hand tangles in her hair and his left begins its journey south, his lips devouring her with the same passion as before, leaving her trembling and breathless in the wake of his onslaught, her hands grasping at his shoulders for purchase, desperate to draw him closer, desperate for more.

His hands are magical, his lips doubly so, everywhere they touch burning with an aching desperation, her desire coiling inside her even before his lips begin to worship her breasts and his leg pushes her open so his fingers can reach inside her. She gasps at the invasion, surprised by it and the fact that it's his fingers he's choosing to place there, but all thought soon leaves her head as he begins to move them, his thumb brushing deliciously over her most sensitive spot in a way that she hadn't expected a man to know about. He's a doctor though, her Lucien, and maybe that has more benefits for her than she realised. And that is the last coherent thought she has for a while as she loses herself in the glory of what he's doing to her, her inhibitions slowly unravelling, her body tingling with energy and taking over her mind, the noises escaping her lips utterly foreign to her, her hands drawing him closer as her hips roll against him, faster, harder, deeper, chasing the wave of ecstasy she feels building inside her until she catches its edge and she breaks, riding it to shore with an earth shattering moan of rapture.

When she opens her eyes, he's there, gazing down at her with a satisfied smirk on his lips and passion brimming in his eyes. “Lucien,” she breathes, momentarily overcome by emotion. Never has she felt anything like this before.

“You're spectacular, Jean,” he replies, grinning wickedly down at her, “and I am going to _adore_ being your husband. What say you, we set a date for January?”

She laughs breathlessly at that, wanting nothing more than to agree with him. She'd planned on tonight and then waiting until they are married, but she's not at all sure she can manage that any more.

She's about to answer when he gently pulls his fingers out of her, the sensation causing a moan of protest to escape her lips instead. He grins, his gaze holding hers as he lifts his hand between them, bringing it to his mouth and slowly licking his fingers, her eyes going wide in shock.

“Lucien!” she gasps, wrapping her hand round his wrist and pulling it away from his mouth. “You can't do that! That's...” She almost says dirty, but catches herself in time, embarrassed and also rather turned on by the experience, which only makes her feel worse. 

“I assure you that it's not, Jean,” he replies, eyes softening as he looks at her, clearly very aware of what she's thinking. “Trust me. I'm a doctor,” he adds, seeing her doubtful look. “Now,” he murmurs, pushing her back against the mattress with his broad chest and resting his forearms on either side of her head, “Where were we?” And he kisses her, his passion returning in an instant as his tongue invades her mouth and she grasps his shoulders to steady herself, sure she will fly apart under the onslaught.

He presses himself against her body and she can feel his hard length against her abdomen, patiently – and sometimes, not so patiently – waiting for admittance, while he kisses her thoroughly before moving onto her neck, where she's sure he'll leave a mark, so intense is his passion.

“Lucien,” she breathes, trying to lift his hips, the ache between her legs intensifying, a hollow that she's sure now only he can fill.

He growls and lifts his hips a little, pushing his right knee between hers and forcing her legs apart, the hot, hard tip of him nestling eagerly between them, gently pushing against her as he seeks access to her core and the heat waiting for him inside her. She whimpers, tilting her hips to direct him and moaning in delight when she feels him nestle against her entrance, pushing her body towards him and feeling him slip inside. Above her, he groans and stills, his face buried in her neck, perhaps scared to hurt her with his considerable girth, but she's sure that he won't – she wants him so badly now.

“Lucien,” she whispers, sliding her hands down to his hips and pulling him gently towards her, wrapping her legs around him to draw him closer still.

He moans, but gets the message, moving his hips to slowly ease himself inside her, each stroke brining him further and further in and causing her to gasp and tremble and begin to see starts. He's perfect, so solid and thick, and it feels so _right_ to have him here that she could cry as he stills with his length sheathed inside her, as deep as he can possibly go.

“Jean,” he whispers into her neck, then lifts his head to look at her, eyes shining with emotion. “I love you,” he says and kisses her lips softly. She moans, overwhelmed by him and all he makes her feel, grasping his head and drawing him to her as she presses her heels against his buttocks, her insides clenching around him, desperate for more, to consume him whole. She hasn't felt so free, so reckless in so long, but tonight she can't seem to hold back – she wants it all and bugger the consequences.

He growls deep in his throat as he begins to devour her, her ardent kiss unleashing a torrent of passion in him, snapping every thread of self-control, freeing him of the shackles of propriety and expectation, releasing the wildness inside him, the recklessness that she knows he struggles so hard to contain, the fervour and abandon of his passion impossible to resist, and all she can do is hold on tight and let him sweep her with him into ecstasy and beyond.

She's lost track of time, track of where she is, track of how she came to be here, but not who she's clinging to as the waves of their pleasure crack and sizzle and dissipate around them, his body almost crushing her, her arms still wrapped around him, clinging to the strong, devastating, dazzling reality of him. Lucien – her fiancé, her lover now, her friend, the most precious person to her in this world, and perhaps, beyond it too. As much as she's been reluctant to admit it to herself, she rather thinks that Lucien, not Christopher, is the person she was born to love and share her life with.

“Bloody hell, Jean,” he mutters into the pillow beside her head, making her smile and then giggle as he turns his head and nuzzles her neck, his left hand appreciatively and shamelessly running down her thigh to her buttocks.

“Lucien!” she protests and attempts to swat his hand away, only to give in rather quickly with a sigh of deep pleasure when he merely squeezes her bum and lifts his head to kiss her senseless.

“I should get back to bed,” she whispers somewhat reluctantly when they break apart for air, acutely aware of the time and the ever increasing risk of them being caught out.

“Stay,” he replies, reaching between them and gently caressing her breast causing her breath to hitch. “I'll make it worth your while. Just give me another minute or two, and I'll be ready to go again.”

He dips his head towards her breast, but she captures it in her hands and guides him to her lips instead. “I'll stay, Lucien,” she says after she's released his lips, “for a little while, but not for that. I'd much rather have a cuddle. It's been so long since someone held me close.”

He smiles, looking almost boyish in the moonlight with his unruly curls free of the Brylcreem he combs into them every morning. “I'm quite good at cuddles,” he replies, moving himself off her and stretching out beside her, grabbing a pillow and wedging it under his head before opening his arms to her. “Come here,” he says.

She smiles and shuffles into his arms, humming in contentment as they wrap their arms around each other, and closing her eyes with a deep sigh of pleasure, and it's not long before she begins to doze in his arms, fighting the pull of sleep lest she forget herself and end up spending the entire night here.

“Best bloody Christmas ever,” she hears him murmur after a bit, his hand sliding down her back and beyond with a deeply appreciative sigh of pleasure.

“Boxing day,” she corrects sleepily.

“Christmas,” he insists. “Boxing day doesn't start until sunnup.”

“I think you'll find, you're wrong about that.” She smiles into his neck, loving their banter.

“And I think you'll find that arguing with me, heats my blood, with very specific consequences for beautiful women already naked in my bed,” he growls in her ear before pressing his tongue into her ear canal and causing her to gasp and shiver, the arrows of pleasure shooting through her taking her completely by surprise.

Where did this man learn to make love like this, she finds herself wondering fleetingly before replying breathlessly, “It's not an argument if I'm right,” and relishing his growl and all that follows, her worry over being found out by Matthew or Charlie or Rose floating out through the open window and into the night on the wings of their passion and the utter bliss and sheer rightness of their love making tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful comments. As promised, the second chapter on this two-shot.

He wakes at the crack of dawn as usual, spooned around Jean and feeling utterly blissful – not so usual after all. He wasn't kidding when he told her last night that this was the best Christmas ever. He cannot believe his luck – that Jean should love him and put up with him and his impulsive, often disastrous actions is one thing, but that she should come to him in the night and make sweet, passionate love to him is quite beyond anything he'd dared hope for.

_Jean._

_His_ Jean now.

And always.

Never has he loved a woman so. Never has he met her equal. She is so beautiful, so remarkable, so wise and clever and constant, so giving and open and forgiving and wonderful. He doesn't deserve her. He knows that. But by God, he's going to do his utmost to make her happy and protect her. She may claim she doesn't need his protection, that she's been taking care of herself for years and can manage perfectly well without him – and as much as he doesn't like to admit it, that is all perfectly true – but it is _his_ actions that have put her in danger lately, his love and affection, the fact that they live under the same roof when he's clearly besotted with her and has been unable to hide it, all that business with Mei Lin and his messy divorce. Even Norman bloody _Baker_ knew to go after her to get to him, so like it or not, he's going to look after her and safeguard her reputation. She needs to leave the warmth of his embrace soon, before Charlie and Matthew are up and about, and though he hates that their precious time together is almost up and would love nothing more than to spend all day in bed with her, he can't risk her reputation. He's done everything he can to protect it so far and he will continue to do so now and in the future. And though he knows they have nothing to fear from Charlie or Matthew, Jean would be embarrassed and it would change their perception of her.

He can't have that.

There's no way around it – he _must_ wake her... but there is no reason why he can't make said awakening as pleasant as possible.

He presses his lips against her naked shoulder, running his hand from her stomach south, his fingers caressing her skin and seeking out the moist, dark heat of her, the tight bundle of nerves there, intent on giving her pleasure one more time before she leaves him, his own body already responding most satisfactorily to the prospect. They'll have to be quick, but he foresees no problem with that. Jean has been more responsive to him than he'd ever dared hope, and he finds he cannot wait to bind her to him, have her take his name and spend every night in his bed being thoroughly loved by him. He doubts he will ever tire of it.

She stirs, making a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper, then sighs in bliss and he hardens the rest of the way in an instant, aching to be inside her once more and throwing caution to the wind as his fingers reach their goal, finding her warm and wet and ready for him. Briefly, he marvels at that, the doctor in him knowing that's not often the case at their age, but the thought is quickly smothered by his rising passion that's urging him to slip inside her once more before it is too late. He pulls his hips back and slides himself over her folds and into her welcoming heat in one fluid motion. She gasps as he enters her, her eyes flying open, her body suddenly rigid with shock, causing him to still abruptly, worried by her reaction. “Jean?” he whispers, pressing his lips against her shoulder again, his fingers stilling in her damp curls, his whole body tense, terrified he's presumed too much and that he's hurt her.

“Lucien,” she sighs, her hand reaching up to run her fingers through his hair as she presses her hips towards him, and it's all the permission he needs to unleash his passion for her, the same passion that's lead him to have her twice already since she joined him in bed last night and is only making him long for more. He thrusts into her hard, her groan of pleasure loud in the stillness of the early morning, and he worries for a moment that someone will hear them this time, the birdsong filtering through the open window telling him they do not have long before Charlie's up and about, getting ready for work even if it is a holiday.

“Quiet, love,” he whispers in her ear, pushing her onto her stomach as he covers her body with his own so her face is in the pillow, strumming her clit with his fingers as he drives into her again and again, hard and fast until she breaks, moaning into the pillow and pulling him with her.

His body is slick with sweat in the aftermath, his heart still pounding, breath heavy as he lifts his weight off her, kissing her shoulder again before he rolls off her altogether and comes to rest on his back, totally spent and sated.

“You're a man possessed, Lucien,” she murmurs after a bit, and as he turns his head to look at her, he can't help grinning at her with pride and satisfaction. “It I'd know how difficult it was going to be to pry myself from your bed, I might never have come down here last night.”

“If I knew you'd slip into my bed every night, Jean,” he counters, rolling onto his side to face her and running his hand appreciatively down her back and over her gorgeous bottom, “I wouldn't feel the need to take every opportunity now.”

“ _Every_ night, is it?” she asks, her eyes alight. “Am I ever going to get any sleep at all once we're married?”

“Not for the first month,” he grins. “Perhaps longer. I no longer work for the police and patients are rather thin on the ground at present. I'll have to keep myself busy doing _something._ ”

He sees her smile at that and a contented silence settles between them for a few moments as they continue to gaze at each other. He knows she's got to leave him soon and he can't help wishing that she wouldn't, that they were already on their honeymoon and could spend all day together, naked in each other's arms. He must do his utmost to get everything sorted soon so they can get married. He's not sure he can bear to wait another day to join his life to hers.

“You _are_ beautiful, Jean,” he murmurs eventually, taking the opportunity to let his eyes roam over her as the darkness fades to day around them.

“As are you,” she replies, reaching a hand across to caress his chest. He watches her as her gaze moves lower and she studies his body, appreciation in her gaze until her eyes alight on the scar on his stomach where Walker stabbed him and she frowns, her fingers gently tracing over it. “I don't want to lose you, Lucien,” she says, lifting worried eyes to his. “I don't think I could bear to go through that again.”

“You won't,” he reassures her quickly, silently vowing to himself to be more careful, less impulsive in his actions from now on. “I'm a tough bugger to kill and I now have everything to live for.” He reaches for her, drawing her into his embrace and softly kissing her lips, delighting in the way she turns in his arms to face him, all her soft, feminine curves moulding to him, her fingers wrapping round his neck, threading through his hair and beard, thumb gliding over his chin and Adam's apple.

“Yes, you do,” she murmurs against his lips, “and don't you forget it.” Then she gives him one last, firm kiss and turns away, adding, “I've got to go.”

He sighs, slumping back onto the bed and watching her get up and slip back into her nightclothes, admiring her grace and beauty and wanting her all over again. She ties the cord of her dressing gown around her waist and moves over to his dressing table, looking at herself critically in the mirror as she threads her fingers through her hair, trying to fix the damage their repeated love making has inflicted. “Use my comb if you like,” he offers as he watches through hooded eyes, resisting the urge to pull her back into bed and do all manner of things to her. He desperately wants to bury his face between her legs, for instance, but he rather thinks he'll have to wait a little while to experience that pleasure.

Last night has confirmed his suspicion that his Jean is a novice when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh, despite her many years of married life and bearing two children, and he very much looks forward to initiating her into the world of possibilities available to them. He rather thinks she'll be a willing participant and avid student if he takes his time about it and she learns to trust him. Her passion between the sheets is a source of great wonder and excitement to him and he can't wait to have her in his bed every night, naked and writhing beneath him... or above him, he cannot help but think with relish.

“Lucien?” She's frowning at him, her cheeks colouring at the obvious state of growing excitement he finds himself in as these thoughts bounce around his head.

He sighs and sits up, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his PJs. He slips the bottoms on, standing to pull them up and tie the chord, then sliding his arms through the short sleeves of the top before buttoning it quickly as he says, “I'll check the coast is clear for you. You go on back to bed, alright? I'll make breakfast this morning.”

She lifts her eyebrows at him in disbelief.

“What?” he asks, sliding his feet into his slippers and grabbing his silk robe, slipping that on too before he runs his fingers through his hair to flatten it.

“You don't think that will look suspicious?”

“No,” he assures her, taking a step closer and gently grasping her arms as he looks into her eyes. “It's Boxing day. You're allowed a morning off, Jean. I'll bring you up a cup of tea.”

“Lucien,” she begins, but he doesn't let her finish, silencing her with a kiss.

He doesn't intend it to last long, but the feel of her lips against his and the knowledge that it'll be God knows how long until he has another opportunity to kiss her makes him draw her into his arms and kiss her passionately. She whimpers and shivers – his Jean reduced to a whimpering, quivering mess in his arms – and he can't help feeling rather smug about it, his eyes sparkling with joy when they eventually break apart.

“Jean,” he murmurs as he wraps his arms around her, holding her in his embrace for a moment, his cheek resting against the side of her head. “Thank you for coming to me last night.”

“I can't keep doing this, Lucien,” she replies softly.

“I know.” He understands. He knows respectability is everything in this town. It's why he'd left and never wanted to come back. This is a precious gift that she has given him, not something to be repeated often, not until they're married at any rate. “But when... _if_ you feel the timing's right again, Jean, you know I'll be here... waiting for you.”

“I know,” she replies, pulling out of his arms and gently kissing his cheek.

They gaze into each other's eyes for a moment more and then he releases her, walking to the door and out into the hallway, checking his surgery first and then the kitchen for any sign of their lodgers. No one seems to be up and about yet, so he quickly returns to his room and motions for her to come out. She follows him down the hall to the stairs, where she gently runs her hand across his back as she slips behind him, hurrying up and out of sight, leaving him standing in her wake with a ridiculously happy smile on his lips and a deep sense of longing in his heart and mind and somewhere rather a lot further south than that too.

He sighs and turns on his heel, slipping back into his room to quickly go through his morning routine before coming out once more, ready to get started on breakfast. It's not quite half past five when he puts the kettle on and only a few minutes after that when Charlie makes his appearance.

“Morning, Doc,” he says.

“Good morning, Charlie,” he beams as he turns to face him. “Sleep well?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Charlie replies, looking a little surprised by the question. “Did you?”

“Like a baby.” He grins, then claps his hands together. “Right. Tea's ready. Help yourself. And I'm working on the coffee.”

“Thanks. Where's Mrs Beazley?”

“I sent her back to bed,” he says without thinking, then seeing the look on Charlie's face, hastens to add, “She deserves the morning off. I said I'd take care of breakfast.”

“Right,” Charlie replies sceptically. “And she let you?”

He turns to look at Charlie again. “What? I may not know how to make scones, but I can manage a decent fry-up, Charlie.” Mattie would have appreciated that joke, but Charlie looks blank and not at all convinced. He misses Mattie and wonders suddenly when she'll be back for a visit. He can't imagine getting married to Jean without her there. He wonders if Lee will be able to come too. Maybe she can bring the baby with her. His granddaughter. He'd love to meet her.

He shakes his head to clear it. “You're probably right,” he concedes. “She's probably testing me, trying to see how much of a hash I'll make of things.”

Now Charlie nods and smiles. “My mother always said it was the clean up.”

“The clean up? How d'you mean?”

“Men fail at the clean up. They can learn to cook and do a decent job of it, but they never clean up the kitchen after themselves.”

He smiles and pats Charlie on the back. “Good man. Let's surprise her, eh?”

“I'll start on the toast then, shall I?” he offers.

“By all means,” Lucien agrees. “I'll get started on the bacon, but first, I promised to bring Jean a cup of tea. Won't be a moment.” And with that, he turns his back on Charlie to pour the cup of tea and carry it upstairs.

“Jean?” he calls, knocking lightly on her bedroom door.

“Come in,” she replies, so he pushes open the door and steps into her room. She's sitting at her dressing table, putting down her hairbrush, and turns to look at him as he enters.

“Your tea,” he murmurs, trying and failing to push aside the images from last night that crowd his mind and the emotions that flood his heart. She's even more breathtaking now that he knows what lies hidden beneath her pretty, blue blouse and tight, brown skirt and he can't help the longing that wells up in him. She's wearing the earrings he gave her yesterday and his engagement ring on her finger, her rose painted lips calling to him, begging it seems to be kissed. Somehow, he manages to resist the temptation, setting the teacup down by her elbow and adding, “Breakfast is on its way.”

She smiles and stands slowly, her eyes on his, holding his hostage. “Thank you, Lucien,” she whispers, reaching her hand forward to rest it on his forearm. “I don't believe I said that earlier.”

He swallows hard, desperate to kiss her, hold her, make love to her on the bed beside them. “You don't need to thank me, Jean,” he murmurs, moving his hand to grasp hers and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I think I do,” she says. “You made it so easy when it could have been so hard.”

He wants to tease her, tell her that she'll always make him hard and, if not, there's always pine-bark tea, but he resists the temptation. Soon, he tells himself. Soon they'll be ready for that kind of banter, but not before they're married and have experienced several more nights like last night together.

“My pleasure, Jean,” he says instead, opting for something a little milder.

“Oh no,” she replies, squeezing his hand with an answering twinkle in her eyes, “the pleasure was all mine.” Then she takes a step back and reaches for her tea, lifting the cup to her lips while she blushes, perhaps as shocked as he at her forward comment.

He almost says something to put her at ease, but he suddenly becomes transfixed by the sight of her lips puckering up to take a sip of the warm liquid and he finds all he can think about is her lips on his. “I never thought I'd be jealous of a piece of crockery,” he grumbles when she returns the cup to the saucer.

She laughs in surprise and sets the teacup aside, taking a step closer. “Is that why you spend half your time breaking perfectly serviceable pieces?” she teases, clearly recovered from her momentary embarrassment.

“Quite possibly, yes,” he murmurs, reaching for her, his hands resting on her hips as he kisses her, then moving up her back to draw her closer, his passion for her overflowing.

It is Jean, as usual, who brings them back from the brink, pushing him away and leaning back out of his reach. “Breakfast is not going to make itself, Lucien,” she says simply.

“Right,” he agrees. “You're right,” and begins to turn away only to have her stop him with a hand on his arm.

She reaches up her right hand and wipes at his bottom lip, smiling up at him when she's done, murmuring, “Lipstick.”

“Right,” he smiles and turns to leave, walking back down the stairs with a new spring in his step as he considers how lucky a man he truly is.

“Right, Charlie,” he says as he steps into the kitchen only to stop short at the sight of Charlie and Matthew sitting at the table, eating. “How long was I gone?” he asks incredulously before he can think better of it.

“Long enough to make two platefuls of eggs and bacon,” Matthew replies dryly.

“Four,” Charlie corrects. “Help yourself. And don't worry, Doc. You can take all the credit. We won't tell Mrs Beazely.”

“Right. Thank you, Charlie,” he replies, sheepishly. “I didn't mean to let you do all the work.”

“It's alright, Doc. I'm happy to help.”

“You're a good man, Charlie,” he smiles, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “Morning, Matthew,” he adds as he carries his plate to the cooker and serves himself some breakfast. “Sleep well?”

“Tolerably,” he replies. “You're looking very chipper this morning.”

He grins, taking a seat at the table and pouring himself some tea. “I am,” he replies. “It was an excellent Christmas.”

“That nice, good morning kiss didn't help at all then,” Matthew replies sarcastically.

For a second, Lucien almost panics, but then he realises Matthew's probably making an assumption about why he was so long taking Jean her tea, so he laughs, pointing his fork at him and saying, “You know the next Mrs Lawson is out there somewhere, Matthew, and it would do you a world of good to find her and quickly.”

“Is that a prescription, Doctor?” Matthew grumbles.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” He grins and takes another mouthful of food. “Take Alice, for example,” he continues after he swallows, watching Matthew closely for a reaction. “She's a nice woman, has a great sense of humour, she-”

“Blake!” Matthew interrupts, looking and sounding cross.

Lucien grins, spreading his palms out in a placating gesture. “I was just saying...”

“Well, don't.”

“Right.” He suppresses a smile and turns to Charlie. “What about you, Charlie?”

“Oh! Err...” Charlie stammers, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Did you enjoy Christmas?” Lucien asks, grinning, his good humour after last night making him mischievous.

“I did. Thank you, Doc,” Charlie replies quickly, looking relieved. Then he adds, “If you'll excuse me, I'd better get to the station.” And he gets up, carrying his plate and cup to the sink.

“Leave that, Charlie,” Lucien says. “I'll take care of the clean up.”

Charlie smiles and nods, then disappears from the room and soon they hear the front door open and close behind him.

“That lad has turned into a fine young officer,” Lucien comments.

“Yes,” Matthew agrees, but he looks a little dejected. He's not wearing his uniform this morning, so presumably, he's not going into the station.

“Got the day off?” Lucien asks him.

“Yes,” Matthew replies, then grumbles, “much good that it'll do me.”

“Come on, Matthew,” he objects. “No need for that now. What say you and I go down to the pub? I'll buy you a drink.”

“At six in the morning?” Matthew frowns. “That's your answer to everything, isn't it, Blake?”

“No,” Lucien replies, refusing to let Matthew destroy his good humour. “My answer to everything is sex, but that's not an option until the bloody courts grant me a divorce,” he mutters, watching with satisfaction as shock registers on Matthew's face. He grins. “Find yourself a good woman to love, Matthew, and marry her. That'll take care of everything.”

Matthew shakes his head at him and sighs.

“What?” he asks.

“Look at me, Blake. I'm not exactly prime marriage material, am I?”

“You mean your leg,” Lucien replies with sudden understanding.

Matthew just glares at him.

“Matthew, you're a good man, honest, courageous – as your injury and how you got it demonstrates quite nicely – you don't drink, and you're a good provider,” he says, willing him to see himself as more than an invalid. “The leg is not important.”

“Not important?!” Matthew interrupts, his eyes flashing with indignation.

“What I'm saying is that there are ways to get around any problems in might cause, ways to accommodate for your injuries,” he explains, before he can say more, however, they hear Jean coming down the hall, humming to herself. “I have a book you can read,” he says quickly. “Actually, I have several. Remind me if I forget later.” And with that, he rises from the table and smiles at Jean as she enters the room.

“Good morning, Matthew,” she beams. “Lucien.”

“Morning, Jean,” they both reply, almost in chorus.

“Have a seat,” Lucien says quickly. “I'll get you some breakfast and make a fresh pot of tea.”

“You make the tea, I'll get my breakfast,” she replies, smiling at him as she picks up her plate and walks around him to the cooker.

“And I'll get a move on,” Matthew adds, rising to his feet and bringing his plate over to the sink as Lucien fills the kettle. “You two have a good day.”

“You too, Matthew,” he says as Jean replies simultaneously, “Thank you.”

They manage to have a normal conversation after that – the longer he spends without touching her, the easier it becomes to slip back into their normal routine and pull his mind away from the delicious way they spent the night. He's sure tonight it won't be so easy when he's lying alone in bed, pining for her, but for now, it's good to be back in control and just enjoy spending time with her – his Jean.

He insists on washing up the dishes when they're done with breakfast, so they spend some time more talking quietly as he washes and she dries and puts things away. He even remembers to wipe the table and push all the chairs in before he rinses his hands and takes the tea-towel she offers him to dry them, spreading it out on the oven handle to dry.

“I'm impressed,” she confesses, smiling up at him.

“That's good,” he replies, taking a step closer to her and leaning down to kiss her. “I have something I wanted to talk to you about,” he adds as he steps back.

“Alright,” she agrees.

“Come into my surgery.” He doesn't want to risk anyone overhearing this conversation, and though the house is empty with both Charlie and Matthew out, it feels more secure somehow in his office.

She frowns, but nods and takes his hand when he offers it, following him down the hall to his office. “I know,” he begins once they're both settled in chairs, “that I'm not your doctor, Jean, and I understand why, but I _am_ a doctor and I can't help but worry, after last night, that there might be... consequences to our actions that-”

“I'm not pregnant, Lucien,” she interrupts quickly, her cheeks colouring a little, but her gaze as direct as ever.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She nods firmly.

“Right,” he murmurs, leaning back in his chair, feeling somewhat deflated. He's not feeling relieved exactly, or disappointed. Perhaps it's a mixture of both. “That's good.”

“Is it?” she asks, studying him closely.

“Well, yes. We haven't talked about it and we're not yet married. I wouldn't want...” He tails off studying her. “Is it a possibility, Jean?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” she replies, dropping her gaze for the first time, her hands smoothing down her skirt. “It's not... I've not...” she stammers and takes a deep breath. “I've not gone through the change yet,” she says lifting her eyes to his. She's so beautiful and brave and wonderful that it hurts his heart a little to think that she has chosen him. “I talked to Alice about it,” she admits. “It's possible, but not this time. I made sure of it.”

“And would you like to have more children, Jean?” he asks softly, reaching for her hand.

She smiles at him, squeezing his hand. “Maybe,” she confesses. “A little girl. I've always wanted a daughter. I lost one, you know. Mid-term. Catherine. Her name would have been Catherine.”

“Oh, Jean,” he murmurs, his heart breaking for her. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

She smiles crookedly at him. “It's okay. We never really talked about it. I always felt it was my punishment for not waiting until we were married.”

He watches her in silence as he processes this piece of information, wondering what more he can say. She is such a remarkable woman. So strong and wonderful. He squeezes her hand in silent support and understanding, astounded that she had the courage to come to him last night given all she suffered through before and how she's chosen to interpret her loss. As a doctor, he knows that there could be several explanation for her miscarriage that have nothing to do with God or her having sex outside wedlock. He knows how important her faith is to her though and he would never dream of questioning it, shaking it, or depriving her of it. That she came to him last night though... He can't fathom why she did it, but he's so grateful for it, for her courage and her love.

“You are the most remarkable woman I've ever met, Jean,” he whispers softly, “And I love you. _So_ much.”

She smiles, lifting her gaze to his and quickly wiping the moisture from her eyes with her free hand. “What about you?” she asks, clearly ready to move on. “Would you like more children?”

“Maybe,” he echoes her, imagining a laughing, little girl with Jean's eyes and smile, running into his open arms. “I never got to be there for Lee, to watch her grow up.”

She smiles. “We'd best not wait too long to decide then, Doctor,” she replies, squeezing his hand again and getting up, moving close to him and reaching down to stroke his hair and kiss his forehead.

“Not long, no,” he replies, sighing in bliss, his heart overflowing with joy and happiness.


End file.
